


all phone, no sex

by QuidProCrow



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Multi, the vaguest phone sex! so much so that it's barely even phone sex but by god is there a phone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 19:42:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19324804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuidProCrow/pseuds/QuidProCrow
Summary: Between three bored people, two working phones, and an unfinished crossword puzzle, this should really be easier.





	all phone, no sex

Nights where Lemony works late are a whole new level of boring, Beatrice thinks. Sure, she and Bertrand are perfectly capable of entertaining themselves, but there is a certain silence in the house without Lemony. No rustling pages as he reads through multiple books at once, no typewriter in the corner with a half-written page hanging over the top, no fond smiles while he’s cooking, no eternal smell of snickerdoodles. Also, Bertrand is much less willing to read under the blankets with her—something about, _we have lamps, Beatrice, why are you using an actual candle_? 

So they’re sprawled on top of their bed, Beatrice propping her book up on her chest, bedside lamp on and everything, while Bertrand, laid out at an angle next to her, has the morning crossword draped over her stomach. Beatrice reaches a hand toward the table by the bed, hunting on the plate of cookies she had there, and sighs when her fingers brush crumbs. No actual snickerdoodles, either. What a bummer. 

Bertrand clicks his pen. “Poolside conveniences,” he says. “Seven letters.” 

“Pool noodles,” Beatrice says idly, turning a page of her book. “Lounge chairs. Sunglasses. You, getting me a root beer float.” 

Bertrand laughs. “That’s a little bit longer than seven letters, Bea.” 

“Sun _glas_ ,” Beatrice offers. 

“Not quite.” 

“Well, rude,” Beatrice says. “We should really have words with the man who does these crosswords, Bertrand.”

“Probably,” Bertrand says. He fills in another answer, the pen a light tickle on her skin through the paper. “ _Do_ you want a root beer float?”

“Well, if you’re offering…” 

Beatrice’s not even reading her book at this point, mostly, so she lifts her head and peers over the edge of the page like the most obvious spy in the word (as Lemony tells her, every time she does it) as Bertrand walks into the kitchen. He hits the light switch and warm golden light spills over his shoulders, across the curve of his spine, the faint freckles gathered on his skin that she can see if she really really looks when Bertrand isn’t so far away. It’s a great view (one of Beatrice’s top three favorites).

“You’re checking me out, aren’t you,” Bertrand calls. 

“Guilty,” Beatrice says. “Move to the right so I can see your ass.” 

Bertrand dutifully sidesteps to the left towards the fridge, all the good parts disappearing behind the counter.

“Some fun you are!” Beatrice shouts, dropping her book down. “Date Bertrand, they said! It’ll be fun, they said! Best lover in the world, they said!”

“Who’s saying all these things about me?” Bertrand asks. She can hear him clinking his way through the cabinets for the soda glasses, the soft hum of the fridge when he pulls out the root beer. 

“Lemony,” Beatrice says. “Writing your virtues on the bathroom wall, in lengthy cursive.”

“He doesn’t strike me as one for vandalism.”

“All in the name of love, Bertrand,” Beatrice says. She lowers her voice for her top-notch Lemony impression. “ _Let it be known that Bertrand Baudelaire has, without question, such absolute charm that he could bring a nation to its knees, or someone with far less metaphorical knees_.”

The whipped cream canister _thunks_ against the countertop as Bertrand breaks into laughter, loud and bright (and very snorty) laughter that makes Beatrice start giggling and giggling. She goes for it again. “ _Tuesday evening, seven-thirty p.m.—Bertrand Baudelaire smiles. My heart belongs to him_.” 

The man in question comes back into the bedroom, still chuckling, a root beer float in each hand. Bertrand sits down next to her, offering her one. “That is, without a doubt, your worst impression, Bea.” 

Beatrice sits up and smacks her book onto Bertrand’s chest (the crossword, meanwhile, flutters down on top of her thigh). “Hold that thought,” she says, grabbing the float and taking a sip. 

He watches her with expectant eyes. Beatrice and Lemony had given him a seven-week course on making root beer floats, summers ago when they were all younger and a little shorter and Beatrice still wore her glasses and Lemony still watched exits and Bertrand still thought they didn’t like him at all, and it paid off, because, besides Beatrice deciding she was never going to wear glasses again, and Lemony realizing she and Bertrand were much better-looking than exit signs, and Bertrand understanding that they loved him like—what was it Lemony wrote down the other day, in that notebook he never lets her read and she does anyway?— _the sperm whale loves the flavor of naval uniforms_? it sounded Lemony enough, but still, besides all that, Bertrand could now make the best root beer floats this side of the Mississippi. 

_What about the other side_? Lemony would ask, with that incessant need to be contrary, and Beatrice feels it like a pang in her chest and swallows too hard. Lemony _really_ needs to stop working so late. 

Bertrand leans in and kisses her, all root beer and a hint of that plain chapstick (spf 15) that he insists on using. 

“You had some whipped cream on your lip,” Bertrand says, like he needs an excuse to kiss her. Then he kisses the other side of her mouth, just as soft and unchapped and sweeter than anything in the whole wide world. 

“More whipped cream?” Beatrice inquires. 

“Yep,” Bertrand says. 

Beatrice holds up her root beer float, unsullied whipped cream and everything. Bertrand clinks his glass against hers and takes a sip. 

“Smoothest man this side of the Mississippi to boot,” Beatrice mutters. 

“What was that?” Bertrand asks, smiling. 

He smiles like a million bucks, so Beatrice kisses him back, once on the cheek, and then keeps eye contact while slurping at her root beer float. What a guy.

Bertrand puts her book on the table next to his side of the bed and then picks up the crossword again in his free hand. “You really can’t think of anything for poolside conveniences?”

Beatrice squints at the paper. “ _Chaises_.” 

“ _Anglais_.” 

“No fun.” 

“Where are your glasses?”

“Excuse you,” Beatrice says, looking affronted, “I have never worn glasses a day in my life.” 

Bertrand doesn’t call her bluff (a smart move). “How do you think _I’d_ look in glasses?” he says instead. 

“That’s an unfair question, you’d look good in anything.” 

“ _Anything_?” Bertrand echos. He even raises an eyebrow. 

“Anything,” Beatrice confirms. “I have a dire need to see you in all of Lemony’s hats, pronto.” 

Bertrand frowns like he’s seriously considering it. “We’d need a very tall room,” he says, just as the phone on the bedside table starts ringing. Beatrice plucks the phone from the receiver and tucks it between her shoulder and her ear. 

“You’ve reached Bertrand Baudelaire’s inability to complete a crossword,” she says into the phone. “One woman and a root beer float speaking.” 

“ _I was just calling to—you made root beer floats without me_?” 

“I am a woman with needs, Lemony Snicket,” Beatrice says. 

Bertrand covers his face with his hand, but his new round of laughter is still perfectly audible, probably even over the phone. Beatrice grins and toasts him with the glass. 

Lemony ignores it, because he is a seasoned player at phone conversations with the two of them. “ _I was just wondering how you two were doing_.” 

“You mean compared to the last time you called, an hour ago?” Beatrice says. “Still fine. How’s the newspaper business?” 

“ _About the same_ ,” Lemony says. He sounds exhausted, and Beatrice feels maybe a little bad for giving him a hard time. “ _I’ll be at least another hour_.” 

Beatrice slouches back against the pillows. “An hour? Lemony, we’re here with root beer floats and all the lights on, you can’t come home any sooner?” 

“ _Why are all the lights on_?”

“You know Bertrand and candles.” 

“I’m sorry I care about fire hazards!”

“Don’t make this a sad conversation,” Beatrice says, swatting at him with her hand. “A whole hour, Lemony?”

“ _It’ll be more than an hour if you keep asking me if it’ll be an hour_ ,” he tells her. 

“This is very uncalled for,” Beatrice comments. Bertrand nods, sipping at his drink again. “What are we supposed to do now?” 

“Mm!” Bertrand swallows his mouthful of root beer. “You should ask him what he’s wearing.” 

Beatrice covers the mouthpiece with her hand and opens her mouth in a mock gasp. “Why, Mr. Baudelaire,” she says, “I had no idea you could be so _saucy_.” 

Bertrand waggles his eyebrows, and Beatrice stifles another round of giggles. She pulls the phone closer, resting it between them, she and Bertrand repositioning themselves a little lower on the bed (still holding the root beers, they’ve always been a necessary part of everything). Beatrice uncovers the mouthpiece, curling a finger through the phone cord. “Lemony,” she says, lowering her voice only a little this time (for the Sultry Version, not the Lemony Impersonation Version), “what are you wearing?” 

Lemony sighs on the other end. “ _Clothes, Beatrice_ ,” he says. “ _I am one hundred percent wearing clothes. I’m wearing shoes, too, would you look at that. I think I even have a hat somewhere_.”

“Oh, come on, Lemony,” Beatrice says, rolling her eyes. 

“ _Beatrice, we shouldn’t have illicit phone sex in a newspaper office_ —”

“Bertrand and I aren’t in a newspaper office.” 

“Not technically,” Bertrand says, “but if you wanted, we could be there in—” He checks his watch, and why on _earth_ is he still wearing a watch? Beatrice flips the catch on the back and throws it to the other side of the bedroom. Bertrand takes a bite out of the pile of whipped cream on Beatrice’s root beer float, and she gapes at the injustice, but that barely deters him from continuing. “—an indeterminable amount of time that I’d know if something dastardly hadn’t just happened to my watch.” 

“ _I work here, I have to look all these people in the eye in the morning_ —”

“You’re there alone, aren’t you?” Beatrice says. 

Lemony is awfully silent. She can almost _hear_ him thinking. “ _What if someone walks in_?” 

“Lemony, it’s—” Beatrice twists around to look at the clock on the bedside table (“That’s what you get for throwing my watch,” Bertrand says. Beatrice shifts back and takes the entire root beer float from him and sets both their glasses on the table beside her empty plate before continuing). “It’s 11:30 at night, I don’t think anyone’s going to burst into the offices of the Daily Punctilio, desperate for crossword answers, and find you getting it on with your partners over the phone.” 

“ _Is it really 11:30_?” Lemony asks, a little too casually. “ _Also, tell Bertrand that 37-down is cabanas_.”

Beatrice sighs. In the ongoing and frequent battle between Lemony’s professionalism (along with his tendency to be easily embarrassed) and the prospect of wonderful, illicit phone sex (which _has_ happened before, on _two occasions_ ), the professionalism (and the embarrassment) tends to win. “Bertrand,” she says, “37-down is cabanas.” 

“Oh, good,” Bertrand says, filling it in, this time holding the paper against the line of Beatrice’s hip. “Thank you.” Then he puts the pen and paper aside and gets an arm around Beatrice, which is always a thrill, his thumb brushing her waist, delightfully chill from the condensation on the root beer glass. “Tell him to take his jacket off.”

“Bertrand, in all his infinite wisdom, requests that you take your jacket off,” Beatrice says. “My personal request is for your shirt.” 

“ _You’re going to list everything I could be wearing, aren’t you,_ ” Lemony mutters. 

“This is not the first time Bertrand and I have tried to get you out of a suit, I think we know what one consists of by now.”

“When you say ‘could,’ does that mean you _aren’t_ wearing a suit?” Bertrand teases. 

“ _Bertrand Baudelaire_ ,” Lemony says, “ _I expected better of you_.” 

“Apparently he’s the saucy one,” Beatrice says. 

“I don’t know if we can call sentence semantics _saucy_ , though,” Bertrand says. 

“ _I am still wearing a suit, for your information. Still wearing shoes, and still wearing a tie_.” 

“That reminds me, which tie were you wearing when you left this morning?” Beatrice asks, curling closer to Bertrand (and the phone). “The one Bertrand gave you? The one where I said, hmm, you sure have an awful lot of ties already, how about we _not_ use this one for its intended purpose?” It’s a _very_ nice memory. Bertrand seems to agree, because he smiles, dips down and presses his lips against the hollow of her throat. She’s sure Lemony can hear her breath catch. She can certainly hear his. “And we—didn’t?” 

“ _I can’t believe that in a house with three reasonably responsible adults, none of us remembered to stop by the dry cleaner’s and pick up the rest of my ties_ ,” Lemony says, and Beatrice has to give him this, his voice is remarkably level. “ _If I wore that particular tie, it was a collective miscalculation, and not because I was going to work late and miss the two of you terribly. The former I’m still doing, by the way_.” The sound of one single typewriter key being almost forcibly pushed echoes on the line. “ _I am definitely working. I am definitely working hard. And if you make a comment about that distressingly obvious innuendo, I may die, Beatrice_.” 

“Oh, well, we can’t have _that_ ,” Beatrice whispers. 

“We really can’t,” Bertrand says. “We like you too much.” 

“I like you more, though.” 

“Bea!” 

“Look, I did that pitch-perfect impression earlier—”

“That doesn’t mean anything—”

“ _Impression_?” 

“Don’t listen to her, it was a joke about knees—” 

“ _Well_ ,” Lemony says, “ _she did say she was a woman with needs, didn’t she_?”

It’s such a bad joke, it’s such a Bertrand sort of joke, but Beatrice can’t help it, it makes her _cackle_ , burying her head in Bertrand’s shoulder as her whole body shakes with it. Bertrand starts laughing, again, snorts and all, and even Lemony’s laughing now, somewhere near her breast as the phone slips down, and she and Bertrand are going to get tangled in this phone cord if they’re not careful, but Beatrice just can’t possibly care.

Eventually, she manages to right the phone. “ _In the interests of fairness_ ,” Lemony says, “ _and certainly not at all because I’d like to know, what are you wearing, Beatrice_?” 

Beatrice and Bertrand exchange a glance. 

“Absolutely nothing,” Beatrice says. 

There is a very pointed silence on the other end of the phone.

“ _And what_ ,” Lemony continues, something sort of strangled about his voice, “ _is Bertrand wearing_?” 

Beatrice and Bertrand exchange a second glance. With a considerable amount of effort, Beatrice does not look at the rest of him. 

“Not all that much now, to be honest,” Bertrand says. “I _was_ wearing a watch.” 

“ _You know_ ,” Lemony says, “ _I think most, if not all, of this work can wait until tomorrow_.” 

Beatrice grins.

**Author's Note:**

> i am thoroughly embarrassed about knees/needs but look, i also cackled, and i keep laughing every time i reread it 
> 
>  
> 
> [tumbles!](http://whoslaurapalmer.tumblr.com)


End file.
